Second Position
by Sandshrew777
Summary: He thought he could do it. He was confident. But he didn't get it right, and his mistake cost him someone's life. Chekov goes to Spock to apologize for losing his mother after warping them out of Vulcan.


**Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, or anything related to this universe.**

**Author's Note: I always wonder how characters develop while we're taken somewhere else, and when Kirk was ejected off the ship I wondered if this scene ever took place. I'm certain that a character like Chekov needs to do this kind of thing, though, so I wrote it up. I was also heavily inspired by another take on this idea, justchasingcars's "Asking Forgiveness". I was intrigued by Spock in that one - go read it! Right after you read mine, of course. :)**

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"I can do zhis. I can do zhis. I can do zhis," Chekov repeated, standing outside Spock's room, leaning against the wall, hand searching in his short brown hair for the courage he so desperately needed to just knock on the door and be let in. He could have used the intercom or even just walked in, but that would have been rude and he didn't want to be rude more than anything right now.

What he wanted was to go in there and tell his captain that he was sorry, that he thought he could do it, that he thought he had it and if he'd only run faster, just a second faster, thought of it just a split second earlier he could have saved her for him. He wanted to tell Spock that Pavel Chekov was just a stupid little boy with naive dreams who saved up for months just to see the ballet. Chekov couldn't resist the lingering music like sprites caterwauling in his ear, gawping at the faces of the dancers half-cloaked in stage lights and half in shadow, controlling their bodies into beautifully grotesque shapes. There, he could pass away into a being who wasn't Pavel Chekov the wiz kid; he could become just a nice young boy enjoying his day off.

But it had been seven months since the last dance, and he was Pavel Chekov, the eternal fuck-up.

"Damn," he whispered aloud. He'd sworn to himself to not swear anymore. He'd only started doing it because he felt so young and all the older guys swore a lot. It was stupid, he knew that, but he also knew that the more he had in common with them the likelier it would be that they would accept him as their friend. All he got were laughs in his face and three more black eyes a week than usual. But he knew he could make friends eventually. He could do it.

And he almost had. Sulu had smiled at him today in the mess hall and waved him over to eat with him and some of his other friends. That had been very nice of him.

"May I assist you?" Spock asked. His voice was sharp and tight, the door panel was open, and Chekov jumped three feet up and off the wall.

"Da, Keptain," Chekov managed to sputter, "May I come in?"

"Must you?" Spock returned.

Chekov bit his lip a little, then squared his shoulders and set his jaw, like he'd seen Sulu do at lunch.

"If it is no trouble," Chekov replied.

Spock stared ahead, as blank as he had been for the past two days, then slid aside and raised his right arm, welcoming Chekov inside.

It was magnificently green, something Chekov wasn't expecting. For all he knew of Commander - Captain! - Spock, he had expected charcoal-like colors, greys and whites and blacks. Maybe a little tan. But the green was vibrant and exploding against his eyelids. Chekov knew, thanks to years of studying physics, that green was the calmest color for the eye and thus it was only logical that Spock decorate his room in green. But he couldn't help being as captivated by a lime rug near the seafoam-sheeted bed as he was the elegant lines of the dancers back home.

Home.

Vulcan.

There was not a shred of Vulcan culture in front of his eyes.

"What did you wish to say, Mr. Chekov?" Spock asked. The voice was as arch as usual and Chekov jumped again, torn from staring at the rug to the torn man in front of him. He did not _look_ torn, of course, being the only Vulcan thing in the room. His eyes revealed nothing, nor his cheekbones or mouth or eyebrows or body language or anything. Nothing gave anything away, but Chekov knew Spock had to be feeling something...somewhere.

He was human, after all.

"I just...I vanted to say I am sorry. I should haff - " Chekov began, holding on to Spock's eyes with his own.

"There is no logical reason for you to apologize. You did as I asked. Circumstances beyond your control prevented you from succeeding as well as you could have. There was nothing more you could have done," Spock replied.

Empty words.

"Of course there vas!" Chekov exploded. Spock was unmoved. "I could haff run faster! I could haff thought faster! I could haff been - " Better, he wanted to say, but Spock cut him off again.

"You are correct. Given your training and experience, however, you reacted in the most probable manner to the given stimuli. You did what was expected of someone of your ability and intelligence. No better outcome could have resulted other than the one you achieved," Spock said.

"But...I..." Chekov trailed off. This wasn't going as he had planned. He'd wanted to come in here and apologize and then...

...what had he expected? He didn't know.

"I knew I could do it. I knew it," Chekov whispered.

"You achieved the best possible outcome," Spock repeated.

"How can you keep saying zhat? Keptain, I did not 'achieve ze best possible outcome.' I failed," Chekov insisted.

"Sometimes failure is the only option," Spock said. His voice had fallen to a whisper and he looked a little pale but Chekov really didn't care about that at the moment.

"I do not agree vif zat!" Chekov shot back.

"Then you are being childish," Spock returned, still whispering.

Childish...

_"You are just a child. You do not know anyzing about luff," his father said._

_"Daddy, please, you must not go! Vat vill Mama do?" a six-year-old Chekov insisted, tugging at his father's brown slacks, tears streaming. If he cried, he would get his way. He knew it. He was confident. It had always worked before._

_But his father gently pried his son's fingers from his pantleg and walked out the open screen door. It fell shut with a quick, final snap._

"Fine!" Chekov yelled. "Fine! I am a child! Yell at me! Yell, Keptain! Tell me I fucked up! Tell me I failed! Tell me I am vorthless! TELL ME SOMEZING! PLEASE!"

The tears were spiraling down his face and he swiped at them. He was out of control - he was afraid of that - but once he started he knew he wouldn't be able to stop. He was screaming, raving, pacing about while Spock stayed in the same spot he'd always been in, watching, observing.

"Why?" was all Spock asked, a slight tilt of the head given, and that's all it took for Chekov to lose it.

He screamed a short scream, one of fury and frustration and failure that turned into a wailing keen.

Then he fell onto his Keptain and cried, hugging him for all he was worth.

"I am sorry...I am sorry," he kept repeating.

Spock said nothing and moved little while Chekov cried. He had fidgeted just once when Chekov had landed, his arms twitching to do something, but they did not and Chekov did not expect them to. Captain Spock did not express emotion.

He did, however, move a second time, pushing Chekov away. This time, the arms moved and held on to Chekov's shaking shoulders.

"Do you...feel better?" he asked, as if the very notion of an emotion was so alien that he could barely understand it. Chekov sniffed, nodded, swiped at his teary eyes again, concentrated on the floor. He was a mess again, screwed up again in front of his captain. Such a failure.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to - " he started.

"Do not apologize," Spock snapped. Then, somehow, Chekov noticed something different in the tone that came next. It fell not without authority, but something else he couldn't figure out: "Do not ever apologize for expressing emotion. You are human. It is natural for you."

Chekov looked up, tilted his head, caught Spock's eyes.

"It is natural for you too," he said slowly.

Spock stared again, his hands still on Chekov's shoulders now falling to his sides.

"You are correct," he whispered. "When the time is right, I shall do so."

He said nothing more. Chekov stared at the destroyed-and-not-destroyed figure of his captain. Spock was all lines but Chekov could finally see, after years of watching the ballet, the human in him. The shoulders had a little curve to them, a little weight, and the cheekbones were taut, as if he were trying to clamp something down.

Chekov fidgeted a little, as if he'd intruded on something private, as if he'd found his Mama sobbing after Daddy left, smashing her fist weakly on their wedding photo in her favorite photo album.

"Wery vell," Chekov said, nodding, sniffling. "Keptain...if...if you ewer vish to talk...vell, my, ah, my door is open."

Spock looked up, all blank again, and nodded.

"Was that all, Mr. Chekov?" Spock asked.

"Aye, sir," Chekov said, slipped past Spock to the now-open door. He looked back once before exiting and saw his captain staring at the green wall as if it held all the answers.

Then he turned and left.

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**Author's Note: Please review, and thank you for reading!**


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